


deathless death

by x (ordinary)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Blood, Crysturbating, Darth Vader's Helmet, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Force Choke, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Self-Flagellation, Self-Hatred, granddaddy issues, how is that not a tag.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5582362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Supreme Leader Snoke has a simple cycle: test, judge, punish if needed. It's just that Kylo Ren often disappoints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	deathless death

**Author's Note:**

> listen, i honestly have no idea this is probably a dead dove do not eat scenario
> 
> note: he totally jerks it over vader's helmet, but more over power/approval things, but yeah... that happens.

"Again," he says, and it is an insidious whisper that slithers through the dark. Kylo breathes out a shuddering exhalation with shoulders tensed. Every muscle in his body is sore and yet he remains whipcord tight, trembling from the exertion. He blearily stares at his knees, and a bead of sweat trickles, slow and torturous, down his bare neck, down his clavicle, to his navel.

Snoke asks for something Kylo cannot give. Asks him to draw from a well that is drained. 

But it's not asking, is it? It's an order, a demand, a _directive_. Snoke cares not for what Kylo thinks he can and cannot do: there is only the potential in his blood and the expectations that follow.

A muscle in Kylo's jaw twitches, and he swallows roughly, and he puts his weaknesses aside. The black spots in his vision meant nothing. The involuntary tears on his face, disregarded. His gut churns with the notion of failure, the threat of it looming over his head like an axe waiting to fall. 

From atop his dais, Snoke waits for his inevitable disappointment. Kylo is sure of it: he can taste it in the air.

He snarls at himself, a fury rising up in his belly that radiates in every direction but especially inward. At his failures, at the light clawing to escape his chest, at his _weakness_ in all things. He will _never_ be more than the most venerable of his family. He cannot continue his legacy, if he does not learn to _excel_. 

Pain looms on the horizon but he's **ready** for it, this test that is one of many. He'd passed it before and will pass it again, as many times as the Supreme Leader thinks he needs to.

Kylo defers to him in all things. He felt out the tendrils of his growing darkness so long ago, and held them in his hand now like reins willingly given. He is the most important piece in Snoke's game, and in return he will be trained into something more. Something great. He had only Snoke to thank for the harnessing of his potential. Kylo would have never been able to grow so powerful without him.

Snoke grows impatient, and so Kylo raises his head, dewy eyes fixed to Snoke's. "Yes, Supreme Leader," he breathes, the words hoarse. 

 

Anticipation blooms beneath his skin, his heart racing faster and faster still. With blood roaring in his ears ferocious, Kylo raises a bare hand. It is deprived of its customary black glove, and strangely that makes him feel more naked than the rest of him exposed. One by one, his fingers uncurl, and they turn towards the long, pale column of his throat. 

He will not fail. He will not falter. And above all else?

He will  _not disappoint._

Without a sound, Kylo unleashes the fury inside his bones, and _oh_ how it's waited to be channeled into something _more_. It is pure and unadulterated _passion_  granted an imposition upon the physical. An invisible grip winds its way around his neck and the pain flares to life, indescribable. Kylo's entire body violently convulses from the expected agony, as he tries to suck in air on impulse _and cannot_. In moments, he's red-faced and drooling, eyes watering all over again, a physical reaction coupled with a noiseless attempt at a sob. Already, Kylo struggles to keep his gaze turned upwards. The mottling of bruises grow only darker under his ministrations, uneven in placement.

How many times has it been, today? Not the second, nor the third. Kylo has lost count entirely of how many times Snoke has instructed him to push the lines of his power, of his endurance. All of his training brought Kylo to the edge of a precipice, and he could either fly or fall. Before Snoke's calculating eyes, Kylo is flayed open, all of his weaknesses in body and mind on display. There is no hologram, no distance between them, and the proximity is what makes Kylo sure that his master senses every emotion and reaction seeping out of his pores. Anger, hate, pain. Vengeance, despair, sorrow.

Lust. Primal, pitiful lust. 

Kylo makes no move to cover himself and the growing evidence of arousal, slack-jawed and gasping for breaths that never actualize. Kylo feels no shame in his nakedness, nor the weakness of his flesh and bones as they sputter and fail. It is the thread of pleasure wound into the fabric of his torture that is the source of his humiliation. It is inseparable. It is eternal. It has always been, and always will be. And Snoke _knows_.

He knows, and that is why he chooses these tests, crafts them in a way that's tailored to Kylo's weaknesses, petty and pathetic as they are.

The black spots return, cornering his vision, and he noiselessly cries out again, chest heaving in abject futility. He closes his eyes and a broken attempt at a sob leaks out of him, and then the pressure grows  _tighter_ around his throat, a white-hot ring of pain. Kylo pushes himself towards the breaking point, hurtling towards the event horizon, and just when he thinks that this time, he can make it, he can break past his limitations--

Kylo's grasp on the Force snaps like a twig, and suddenly he can breathe again. He gulps in huge gasps of air without thinking, purely on the instinct of survival. He slumps forward, arms hitting the cold stone, too shaky to support himself. Mouth slick with drool, cheeks wet with tears, ringing in his ears, Kylo knows he has failed.

"Your control continues to disappoint," Snoke notes, both bored and disapproving. Kylo physically flinches, because the claim is a truthful one. The hate in him wells up like an inky black sickness, swirling in Kylo's mind. He is inept. He is _not enough._ Kylo pants, unable to answer for several seconds, and slowly rights himself, brows furrowing in loathing, all of it turned inwards. 

Kylo wheezes, and how  _wretched_ he sounds, even to his own ears, "Supreme Leader. Let me try, one more time. I will succeed." It's very nearly begging, and resentfully Kylo feels the shame washing over him. He swallows once, twice, and aches to palm himself. _Disgusting_. 

Snoke leans back in his seat, disapproving. "No. I have seen enough of this." He gestures with one hand at his apprentice, unaffected. He finds the events that transpire during these trials absolutely tedious. "You know what you must do." 

Kylo nods, the muscles in his face tightening, his teeth set on edge. No one hated Kylo Ren's failures more than Kylo Ren himself, and so instructing him to punish himself according to his own standards was nothing short of cruel. The notion set his nerves aflame, and already his cock leaked onto the cold stone, abdominals rippling to keep himself from rutting against it. Even he would not sink so low.

"Yes, Supreme Leader." The punishment would be painful, and it would be relentless-- but at _this_ , Kylo knew he could succeed. The unsteady, frantic maelstrom of Kylo's mind rippled outwards in barely restrained chaos, a  _push_ that echoes out in the cavernous room, knocking all things within range askew.

From us unkempt pile of robes, Kylo summons a singular object, a streak of black that flies into his hand. In it, the belt is heavy, the black of its leather concealing bloodstains from previous endeavors. Kylo keeps his gaze fixed on his Supreme Leader, and blinks away his messy tears. He hunches forward, one hand digging into his bare knee, and raises the other. The belt snaps behind him, pulled taut. It hovers shakily just behind his back, and Kylo presses on it with both a push and a pull, pinning it in place. 

His arousal pulses, and Kylo very nearly bites his lip in frustration. The Belt goes slack, and then connects with a resounding crack. Kylo  _howls_ in fury-pain-hate, not biting back a single sound. He raises the belt again, and repeats the action harder than before. The buckle draws blood, stinging and sharp, and he knows without seeing there are lines of red forming on his back, crisscrossed over old scars. 

Every blow pulls from him another sound, and every one of them is tinged with a dark pleasure, a masochistic hunger sated by the pain, by the knowledge that his master watches, judging him and finding him wanting.

(Hoping for approval is hoping for something he doesn't deserve.)

With a particularly vicious blow, another wail erupts from Kylo's throat, anguished and hoarse. There's no questioning that his back is now tacky with blood. All the same, he's so hard that it _hurts_ , and he bites back a furious whine. He slides closer and closer to a completion without a single touch, cock twitching in the cool air, his skin raised into gooseflesh. In the pit of his stomach, he longs for a crueler hand against him, to shove his face into his messes and mistakes alike. In all things he is torn, and it is both validation and debasement that Kylo seeks and needs and craves, like a starved creature emerging from the deep.

Kylo licks the back of his teeth, lowering the belt just enough to hit the small of his back. His grasp on the Force remains shaky but does not falter in strength. With his senses intact, Kylo's abilities are less inhibited, for better or for worse. The belt cracks against his back repeatedly in a staccato beat without rhythm, and he finds himself approaching climax, mouth hanging slack, chest heaving. He's _so close_ to the agony that he chases, and--

"Enough." Snoke stands, towering over Kylo like few can, and in his fervent desperation Kylo almost begs for permission to continue, to just let him reach just a little more-- but the warning pulse of a Force push sends Kylo sprawling backwards, and the belt clatters to the ground. Brown eyes fly upwards, warily watching, waiting, not moving even an inch as Snoke inspects him with little more than a cursory glance. It is unnecessary. Kylo can feel the presence of Snoke in his mind, prodding at its edges with distaste, monitoring the state of his powers. This time, he is at least appeased, flooding him with a resentful relief that's almost palpable.

"You are _dismissed_ , Kylo Ren. Return in two days time, after you have recovered your strength."

Kylo stands, stiff, and collects his robes. "Yes, Supreme Leader. Thank you for your wisdom today." The words are thick on his tongue, voice still scratchy from the abuse to his throat. His body shakes even as Kylo steps into the layers upon layers of clothing that have become his armor in more ways than one. The black undershirt soaks up the blood on his back, the black collar hides the violent ring of purple bruises around his neck, the tunic concealing his still-present arousal. Kylo pulls on his gloves and finally, _finally_ , the helmet slides into place, and to all but Snoke he is a mystery, a visage of power, a force of nature. 

He stalks backs to his quarters, and the servants know better than to disturb him when on a warpath, radiating an aura so hateful it could repel a mother's love. The room given to him was spartan, and Kylo has kept it that way. A pillar sits in the corner within viewing distance of his bed, and atop it rests--

The helmet.

The birthright, the destiny, the power that should have ruled had it not been betrayed by blood. The galaxy should have been his to keep, and it had been unfairly swept out from under him, and Kylo bites at the inside of his cheek so sharply that he draws blood. The copper tang of it filters into his mouth, and for a second Kylo pauses, the air dead save for his feral panting, an idea halfway forming in his head. Kylo yanks off mask, breathing gone hasty with the disgust-exhilaration-need, and hastily shoves his pants down around his thighs, pushes aside his coat and tunic. Finally, Kylo feeds the pleasure that has been burning for hours in his blood, eyes locked with the empty eyes of Darth Vader's helmet.

"Show me," he whispers, hoarse, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Kylo tugs on his length with a punishing grip, dragging gloved hands along his cock. The friction is unbearable, rubbing his skin raw, and yet Kylo doesn't stop. He is compelled to continue, driven towards completion.  

In the confines of his own room Kylo messily unravels, his power collapsing into an unkempt heap of self-loathing and disappointment. The anger falls away until it's replaced by despair, and he _needs_. "Please." It's a beg, a sob, a plea. A _prayer_. "Show me again the power of the dark side." The potential for greatness runs thick in his veins, his lineage serving as a promise of what has yet to come. It had to be there. _It had to be_. Kylo, Master of the Knights of Ren, would some day be the most powerful man in the galaxy, so says the venerable Supreme Leader, so says the history which repeats itself.

Kylo reaches out into the void for guidance, but there is only silence, as there always is. How could there be anything but? He longs for approval that he's succeeding at continuing the legacy of and from a man who's long since dead. A pathetic sob lurches out of Kylo's throat, and fear rears its many heads: of failure, of disappointment. Of ineptitude, when the time comes. (And it will. He can feel it.) He longs for the reminder that he is not yet, and in that, Snoke can provide. Humiliation still burns pinpricks into his skin, a confusing thing he doesn't quite understand, which makes him even more furious in turn.

With a snarl, Kylo presses his fingers right where his own invisible one had clutched not so long ago, and _squeezes_. He's rendered breathless all over again, choking for air in time to the brutal pace of his strokes almost too painful to bear. Without sweet agony, Kylo is lost in the storm of his mind, unable to escape it without an anchor of suffering. It grounds him even as he goes light-headed, reduced to a creature borne of too much desire: the want in him burns like dual suns, both immense and greedy. On instinct, Kylo aches to destroy everything he touches.

Especially himself.

With a final, painful tug, Kylo comes all over his gloved hand mid-sob, hand around his throat winding into thick brown hair, cock still twitching as he let out one, last, broken whine. Even after he's come, Kylo's gaze doesn't waver from the aged, burnt helmet and its unspoken promises, and hoarsely whispers back his own.


End file.
